


A Lobby With Nine Hundred Windows

by danwriteskink



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Dominance, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Submission, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 07:44:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21158093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danwriteskink/pseuds/danwriteskink
Summary: Harold loves that for John, obedience is more sustaining than privacy.





	A Lobby With Nine Hundred Windows

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Take this Waltz', by Leonard Cohen.

Harold watches through six cameras as John undresses in the middle of the room. 

"This is the real reason you bought this place, isn't it, Finch?" John says, unzipping his pants. "The viewing potential. Probably walked around with the realtor, oohing and aahing about the quality of the light but all the time you were planning where to put the cameras." 

Harold doesn't say that the identity who bought this building didn't deal with realtors. He had a suite of property managers for that. Neither does Harold admit that he spend time here. He's slept here, he's learned every corner of the space, picking out viewing points and imagining this very scene unravelling before him. 

"I had many reasons for buying you a loft, Mr Reese," he says, instead. John stands up and shrugs off his suit, stepping out of his trousers. God, but he's beautiful, thinks Harold, watching the movement of muscles, the long, lean frame of him, the way his shirt now brushes his ass. He wants to throw his careful plans away and go to him now, to touch him, to feel John's body move under his hands. He won't, of course, and that makes the tension within his own body even more exquisite. 

Something of his own arousal must transmit via John's earpiece because the man smirks. "Do you get this turned on when you're watching me brush my teeth?" 

Harold is smiling back even though John can't see it. It probably shows in his voice, at least for someone as perceptive as John. "There is very little about you that I don't find arousing. Even when you're flossing, I'm admiring the care you take with your body. Self-discipline is almost as fascinating as discipline, after all." 

John's hands slow on the buttons of his shirt, and he moves with more care. Harold appreciates this. They've had some discussions about John's tendency to rush things, his carelessness with the clothes he's been given. There has been some re-education on the matter. Harold's hand move on the keyboard, and one of the screens blinks, then opens video of that particular day: John's arms tied above his head – tied by his own hand at Harold's order; his narrow waist disappearing into the black of his trousers; Harold's hands roaming over John's chest. 

Harold would like to whip John, and John has indicated that he's as interested in the concept as Harold. Harold's injuries from the bombing make that difficult, and he knows that it would be unsatisfying for both of them. He's not prepared to compromise John's pleasure for a personal whim. Perhaps he should speak to Ms Morgan about that. He makes a note to bring it up the next time they discuss John's progress over lunch. Then he spends a moment imagining the sound of a good leather single tail against John's skin. John's hiss as he suppresses his reaction to the bite of it. The heave of his chest under Harold's hands. The marks it would leave, and how they would linger. 

On the camera, John hangs up his suit, gathers equipment and returns to the centre of the room. Harold chose the rug, for the softness of the pile and the warm tones of gold and cream in the pattern. It provides the perfect setting for John.

John is on his knees now, naked with his legs spread. Harold reaches out to nudge a camera angle so that he can see the flex of John's abs, and the beautiful curve of his cock as it presses against his belly. The camera makes a soft whir, and in answer to that noise, John arches his back a little, preening. He likes to be admired. 

"Such vanity," says Harold, but there's no disapproval in his voice. "Put your hands on your head, please." 

John is breathing a little harder as he obeys. Harold knows how important this is for John, how obeying and being rewarded is as good as oxygen to him. It's a precious thing, and Harold cannot overestimate the value of John's trust for showing it to him. 

"You're hard," he says. "Have you been hard all afternoon?" 

"Yes," says John, immediately, his hands still on his head. "Since you told me about tonight." 

He doesn't blush, which is a pity, because John would blush beautifully. Harold thinks that the CIA or Ms Stanton quashed the last vestiges of self-consciousness in John, and while he still seems to feel shame, Harold has to work John carefully to reveal that tender self-protectiveness that is normally seen in someone so interior. Harold is glad – honoured – to give John the measure of protection he needs to be able to reveal vulnerability, but at the same time, he has hope that John will eventually feel certain enough to express it with less hesitation. 

"You'd like to touch yourself, wouldn't you?" 

The arch in John's is entirely for his own benefit now, like a cat in a sunbeam, a response to sensation, except that there's nothing touching John now except for Harold's voice. 

"You said I could," John says. It's a simple statement, not petulant or demanding. 

"That's not an answer, John." Harold has tried to instil in John the need for precision in talking about himself, especially during these episodes.

"Yeah, I want to touch myself," John says, and this time his voice is low and hoarse. Harold watches a moment more, counts the rise and fall of John's chest, and notes an increased respiration rate. He dims the overhead lights in the loft, then sighs at the way lamplight washes over John's skin. John's cock looks like it's been hard all day: aggravated and dark, red and thick, pressed to his belly, and gleaming a little on the head. He's probably been rubbing it raw under his trousers. 

Harold slips off his own jacket, unbuttons the waistcoat, slips off his cufflinks. It takes some time, until he's sitting down again, fly open, shirt hanging loose, but John doesn't move. His posture comes back a little more upright so his back is parade-ground straight, but he still kneels, his hands still clasped behind his head, his knees still spread. The lamps that surround him keep him wreathed in light, a lovely soft illumination through antique glass shades. 

"Very well," Harold says at last, in the dark. "You may begin." 

The benefit of watching through cameras while John jacks himself off, whether he is doing so performatively or for simple release, is that Harold knows his rhythm by now. John uses exactly the right amount of lube to allow his hand to slide up and down at an easy speed. He enjoys this early phase of the process, enjoys teasing himself. Harold can tell from his half closed eyes, and the way his hand lingers over the head of his cock. The strokes right now are steady but languorous, with lots of time between each one so that John can improvise, using the pad of his thumb over the slit sometimes, or catch his balls with the heel of his hand on the downstroke. His eyes are half-open, staring into the middle distance. Harold wishes for a moment he were there, to take John by the chin and force him to focus. 

"Who are you seeing, with those far-away eyes?" he asks, instead. It's been quiet in the loft for some time, and his voice is startlingly loud over the speakers. John doesn't jump, though, because John never forgets that Harold is watching. 

John's hand moves a little faster as he thinks about the question, the rhythm a little pacier. "Who would you like me to see?" he says. 

It irks Harold sometimes, when John is lazy in the way he submits. "Put your hands on your head, please." 

John hisses out an angry sigh, but obeys, interlacing his fingers at the back of his skull. 

"When I ask a question, I expect an answer," Harold says. "Not another question. I'm not here to do the work, after all." He'd say something scathing about needy subs, but it wouldn't be sincere. John so rarely asks for what he wants, and Harold finds it difficult to deny him anything. Except this. Tonight, Harold wants John's desperation, and perhaps, to a certain degree, anguish. 

John's chest rises and falls, the movement enhanced by his raised arms, each breath coming a little faster. Harold watches him, naked and erect and obedient and _perfect_. 

"Very well, start again." This time, Harold slips his own cock free, starts moving his hand as John recommences his stroke. He watches, waits for John to lose himself in the pleasure of touching himself, for those eyes to dip, and dip again as he drifts away to some fantasy inside his head. 

"This time, I'd like an answer: what do you see, John?" Harold lets his hand slide along the length of his own cock, enjoys the way John's movements enhance his own sensation. Even more than orgasm, Harold loves to watch John teeter on the edge of vulnerability. 

John's breath hitches slightly. "You," he says. "You and me." 

"Excellent." Harold watches him; he's going to have an emotional reaction in a moment and Harold doesn't want to miss a single muscle twitch of it. "Look into the camera, please, and describe what I'm doing to you in this fantasy." 

John blinks a few times at this command and his jaw tenses. It's as close as he comes to blushing, and it's delightful. He turns his head towards the nearest camera, and his expression is raw, open and vulnerable. None of the flirtation is present now, none of the sly backtalk or the innuendo. It's just John, his eyes wide and damp at the lashes, his lip full where he's been working it with his teeth. He doesn't want to reveal this inner process, Harold can tell that he is embarrassed and vulnerable. Harold loves that John is going to do it anyway. There is nothing that John would deny him, not even this, something so personal, so intimate. Harold loves that, for John, obedience is more sustaining than privacy. 

John doesn't keep Harold waiting for long. He knows better than that by now. "I'm picturing… It's you, and me," he says again, and his hand sweeps the length of his cock and back, one smooth motion: up, around, down. "You own me, I don't know, some situation where you own me – I know you own me, I have a collar, it has your name on it." Up, around, down, again and again. "You tell me to kiss your shoe, and I do it. I want to do it, but I have to as well, and, and…" Up, around, down, this time with a quick brush against his balls, his fingers reaching back to catch them before they slide upwards along his cock again. 

"How does it feel to be owned?" Harold says. They don't have a collar, he and John, not yet anyway. Harold hadn't realised the concept held such value for John. It opens so many possibilities. "Where do you feel it?" 

John gasps then steadies himself. "Here," he says, his palm on his chest. "It's an ache, but a good ache." His other hand hasn't stopped moving yet, but the pace has increased a little, and the head of his cock beads with fluid. "And here." He rests his hand on his gut. "I feel it here, like, like fear, I think. It's like…" he pauses a moment, strokes, strokes again, sighs. "It's like the middle of a fight, when I know I'm going to catch a bullet," he says. "But I have to keep moving, I just have to let it happen." 

There are some who would say that likening a relationship to the sensation of catching a bullet is far from healthy but Harold understands. "The inevitability?" he says into the microphone. "The… certainty of your obedience, perhaps."

John groans. His hand is flying now, he is chasing release even though he has not been given permission to come. This is another sign of his trust, that he knows Harold won't let him come, so he can go as near as he possibly can. When his breath is hitching on each inhalation, when Harold can see the sweat sheen on his forehead, when the pace is so fast that John's hand isn't making the whole length anymore, Harold speaks. 

"Stop now, hands on your head." 

John's body rocks with the effort of stopping, his back arches then his ass briefly brushes the back of his calves. He makes a noise, a beautiful noise of frustration and acceptance – Harold makes a note of the time; he'll want to listen to that sound again and again – then his fingers interlock behind his head. His cock jumps, brushes his belly and leaves a wet smear against the skin. Harold zooms in one of the cameras, and sees that John is shaking, just a little. 

"Excellent, John. Well done. Now just breathe. Look into the camera, breathe and listen."

John's eyes go to the camera, and Harold feels a jolt of emotion at the expression on his face. So much want in his eyes, so much trust. It's as difficult for Harold to see that vulnerability as it is for John to expose it. Harold takes a moment to gather himself before he speaks.

He checks the time: enough has passed for John to start again. "You may continue," he says and settles back in his chair, legs parted. His hand slides up and down his own cock as he watches John sigh with relief and begin to build the tension once more. 

As John's hand moves, so does Harold's, and Harold keeps talking, his voice low and steady, though it's difficult now that he's getting close to orgasm himself.

"If I owned you, John, you would wear my collar all day. It would be leather – black I think, or possibly a dark, warm brown – and high enough that you would have to carry yourself a certain way, your head at a certain angle. I want my possessions to present with elegance, after all. I would buckle that collar on in the morning, and you would hold your head high when you wore it, wherever you were told to go."

John shivers, a full body reaction to Harold's words, and Harold's voice breaks a little at that. Being in control of John in this state, watching him react so intensely, knowing that he has handed the decisions about his own pleasure to Harold – it's overwhelming. 

Harold's own erection is tight against his hand now, and each stroke teeters deliciously on the edge of pain. He doesn't think he will last another round of this without coming. He works himself, watches on the screen as John's hand moves too, feels the tension in his back and shoulders as climax hovers, hovers, waiting for permission to fall. Harold is as controlled with his own orgasm as he is with John's. Holding it back makes the finality of coming that much sweeter, for him and for John. 

After a few more minutes of torturously smooth action, Harold makes his decision. "Please finish, John, when you're ready." His voice is not entirely steady as he speaks, but that pleases him too. John should know what he does to Harold, should know that he is beautiful and desirable. That he is appreciated and loved. 

John's back straightens at the command, and he lets out a low moan. "Thank you," he says, his voice barely a sigh, while his pace accelerates to that point where he's not making the full length of his cock. 

"Oh, John, thank you," Harold says. "For obeying me, for trusting me. For giving me this." He sounds breathless, he knows. He is breathless. Orgasm is thundering pleasure down his spine, overriding pain, making him float. "John!" he says, and it's not a command, not anything but an exultation. John is his, John is his, and he is coming. 

"I would be proud to own you, John." There is raw pleasure in his voice, and he watches as John arches in response. John's ass pulls tight, his head is thrown back, and he rocks forward on his knees as he comes. It's beautiful. John is beautiful. 

There's a quiet moment, as the aftermath of pleasure washes over them. John's breathing steadies faster than Harold, and he leans forward on hands and knees a moment before rolling to one hip and grinning at the nearest camera. 

"Yes," says Harold, smiling. His voice is still hoarse, breathing still raspy. "You're very clever, well done." He swallows, dry, then unrolls his sleeves one by one, slipping in the cufflinks. His muscles are tight from sitting, despite the overall glow that orgasm bestows, and he can almost hear the creaking when he stands, but he's upright as quickly as his body will allow. On the screen, John is already in the shower, rinsing sweat and lube from his skin. He'll be out by the time Harold sets foot on the ground. 

There's more than one reason Harold bought this apartment for John. The useless room at the top of the stairs, supposedly a home office, is perfect for Harold's purposes. He washes up, then goes down the stairs carefully, feeling his hip and spine start to loosen up with the movement. John waits for him at the bottom step, dressed in soft tracks and a t-shirt with a torn hem, old clothes, comfortable clothes. On the last stair, Harold reaches out to touch his cheek, warm and still damp from the shower. John leans into the touch, and then steps in close to Harold's body, so Harold can fold him in, rest his chin on John's wet hair, breathe in the smell of him, feel the warmth.

There's wine, there's dinner, there's curling on the sofa together, and Harold feels nothing but contentment. John dozes, his head resting on Harold's thigh, where Harold can easily stroke his face when he's not typing. They are so lucky to have found each other, he knows this. It may not last forever – the nature of their work means it likely won't – but while they are together, Harold won't let himself feel anything but joy. This is perfect.


End file.
